


That Typical Superwholock Crossover

by Navyblueyoucallmesexy



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Demonic Possession, Demons, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Murder-Suicide, Possession, Vincocci, murder case
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:52:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4706693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Navyblueyoucallmesexy/pseuds/Navyblueyoucallmesexy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade is having a difficult day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. FEDs

"Which department?" Greg asked, barely looking up from his paperwork. Holmes stood just behind his shoulder monitoring the room as usual and in the corner, Watson, monitoring Sherlock. On any normal day he would be texting or googling words Sherlock mentioned in passing but today he seemed intrigued in the two new comers in the middle of the room.

The pretty boys in front of Greg were American, mid-thirties and looked like they gave up a modelling career to become policemen with high cheekbones, pouty lips and eyelashes that would make a drag queen jealous.

The shorter of the pair confidently flipped open a Federal Bureau of Investigation badge and with a brighter than white smile, said "FEDs." It wasn't really the answer he was after, but before Lestrade could comment, Sherlock barked a laugh.

"I knew there was something off about you boys!" He exclaimed, walking into the centre of the room, "I mean besides the model quality. Where is he?"

Sighing, Greg put his head in his hands. The men looked at each other, confused. Stuttering, the taller one said "Excuse me? We're here on official business from the head office, Mr Lestrade, is there somewhere more private.."

"Oh shut up." Sherlock muttered, pulling the Feds badge from the officer's hand.

"Hey!-"

"Sherlock." John quickly reprimanded from the corner.

"I'm really sorry gentlemen, he's... he's not..." Greg tried to apologise.

Sherlock turned to face John shaking the badge, gesturing towards the officers. "They're lying through their teeth, surely you could tell Watson. Look at the tan, the shoes- the hands." John just nodded, keeping his opinions to himself.

Greg looked at the FEDs more closely; so they had a tan? They probably get paid enough for fantastic hot holidays. Their shoes were standard dress shoes and both men had their hands behind their back. He trusted Sherlock, even considered him a friend, but God was he annoying. "Listen Holmes you can't just go around accusing Feds of lying! That's not okay." Greg shouted, standing, hands against the desk.

Sherlock hung his head, exasperated, before swinging it up dramatically towards Greg. "The man on the right here is somewhat passable as an agent to the ordinary veiw; sharp pressed suit, intellegent eye, and quick response. However his haircut is far from regulation," The taller man nervously tucked his hair behind his ears, "-and the muscles bulging from underneath that jacket were not forged in a gym. On the left here we have a man in a suit that has been in the boot of an old car for some miles and has traces of oil on his neck." The man on the left smiled awkwardly and reached up to his neck as the taller man looked at him with bewiderment. "Both men have the complexion of one with an outdoor job, their shoes are years old, polished multiple times to look new and most compellingly," Sherlock paused for a moment, relishing the attention before lifting the shorter man's hand, palm towards Lestrade and John. "Scars covering the skin, prominently from the meat of the thumb to the wrist. Typical of satanic rituals and such."

"Jesus." Greg gasped as his eyebrows hit his hairline.

The fake Fed snatched his hand back, laughing nervously, "You aren't really going to listen to this guy, right? I mean what-"

Turning his back to Greg, Sherlock's face hardened. "Shut. Up." Nobody questioned him this time. "Where is he? Where did you get this paper?" He asked, looking up at the smaller man who was still considerably taller than Sherlock.

He flushed red "At the academy. .?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Fine. A blonde chick, British. She's the one who told us to check out this case, said that paper thing is like a free pass." He admitted, his accent becoming more sloppy.

"Must be his latest companion.. he has a thing for 'chicks'." He said to himself, "and this 'paper thing' is psychic paper. Luckily one of us was given basic psychic training." Bragging, as usual.

"That explains a lot." Greg mumbled, but Sherlock didn't hear him. Or more likely, ignored him.

"Excuse me, who are you talking about?" John asked, more than a little confused.

Sherlock spun to face John, gripping his shoulders. "Its him." Sherlock grinned, "The Doctor is back." And he ran out of the room, all but clicking his heels as John stumbled after him.

"Who?!" John yelled down the hall, but the only answer to be heard from Lestrades office was Sherlock's roaring laughter.

"So.." The short American said after a moment of silence, "Dean and Sam Winchester," he smiled sheepishly, pointing a thumb at himself and the taller man. "No hard feelings?" Lestrades sank down into his chair and let his head hit the desk.


	2. Winchesters

"It was real nice of the Lestrade dude to let us leave, 'parently they don't care about people impersonating Feds in England." Dean said, shoving his shoes on top of the suit in the boot of the impala. "We should probably buy some new shoes though, get you a haircut too." He grinned cheekily at Sam.

"What, and get you a bath?" Sam countered as Dean selfconsiously rubbed his neck, frowning. "I don't think we need to worry too much," he said as he climbed into the car, "That guy Holmes seemed pretty... Uh.. Unusual. No one else noticed anything wrong."

Dean made a sound of agreement, nodding. "Still," he said inspecting his scarred hands, "should get Cas to fix these up. Don't want random people thinking we're Satanists, we're already serial killers." Dean laughed at his own joke.

Sam just rolled his eyes as the usual flutter of wings indicated Castiel had joined them in the back seat.

"Fix what up? Are you hurt Dean?" Castiel asked, leaning through the front seats and scanning Dean for injuries.

"Nah I'm alright," he smiled softly. Sam wondered if Dean had prayed to Castiel or the sneaky little angel had been listening to their conversations again, either way, they both needed to be a hundred times less obvious. "Just this clever guy in the police station, blew our cover because of the scars-"

"I'm okay too by the way. Not hurt, I'm okay, if anyone cares." Sam interrupted, looking out the window.

Castiel stared at him blankly and Dean raised an eyebrow before continuing, "-just wondered if you could mojo them off."

Ignoring Sam's remark, Castiel smiled and agreed to wipe their hands of any lines. "Who was the 'clever guy' that realised you weren't agents?" He asked, curious.

"He was a detective but he didnt really seem to be an officer. Sherman or something. " Dean explained.

Castiels didnt comment. Lifting Deans hands, palms up, he held them gently as his grace mended the hands in a glow of blue light. The light seeped back into Castiel and they stayed still. Holding hands.

Sam coughed and Dean jumped, letting go of Castiel, who was still unmoving. "Human contact Cas; no longer than five Mississippi's." Dean mumbled, looking down and inspecting his soft, callouse and mark free hands.

Sam held his own hands out and Castiel quietly waved a hand over him, the blue light glowing from his palms. He seemed gloomy and it was over quickly, "Thank you," Sam said inspecting his new hands, "We should get back to the motel."

"Premier Inn y'mean," laughed Dean.

"Why are we in England?" Asked Castiel, looking about as if just now noticing his location, "I thought you couldn't fly due to an irrational phobia of air transportation" He directed at Dean.

Deans face turned pink "It's not irrational! Planes crash all the- all the time! The rate- I just prefer to-"

"Yeah Dean hates flying." Sam stated as Dean attempted to defend himself, "But this time and space travelling girl told us there was something going on in London, demon omens. She had to run so we didn't get any details but she said we probably wanted to check it out."

Cas tilted his head, eyebrows scrunching. "Time and space travelling? Was she a servant of the Lord?"

"Nope. We tested her, everything. She was just plain ol' human. Said she was from London and that she had a not-so-human friend who travelled with her, so maybe her friend is the angelic one."

"Rogue perhaps." Castiel pondered, "I'll look into it."

Sam and Dean just shrugged at each other and set off towards the hotel.

Back in the room the guys were researching. Well, Sam was, Dean was currently scrolling through his texts. Undoubtedly from Castiel.

"Whoa." Sam exclaimed from behind his laptop screen, "This Holmes guy is a big hit here. That guy Watson, John Watson, he made this site about all the mysteries they've solved together, murder cases they've closed. Turns out he's a consulting detective."

"Nice," Dean nodded, putting his phone down, "but whats a consulting detective?"

Sam shrugged, "He helps the police when they're out of their depth apparently. But Dean you're missing the point, this guy could be really useful."

Deans phone rang, Bon Jovi filling the room as he answered "Hey Cas," he smiled, "yeah... The girl- wait -she what? You mean an actual..? Seriously? But.. really...? I'm not questioning your knowledge Cas, its just...okay. I'll tell Sammy." Dean covered the phone and turned to Sam, "Guess what? Turns out aliens are a thing now."


	3. Magic Paper

"Sherlock stop!" A flop of curly black hair rose from the pile of papers in the corner slowly. It was the first time he'd stopped moving and talking since they'd left Lestrades office. "Thank you. What- whats going on? What are you doing?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "Have you not been listening to a word I've been saying?"

Johns eyebrows lifted, and his voice Rose an octave "You have been mumbling to yourself at 50 miles an hour for the past-" he checked his watch "-40 minutes. 25 of which you spent chucking paper around the flat. Please tell me what's going on." 

Sherlock disappeared back into the mass paper, his voice travelling across the room. "He gave me a number to call if I ever required him, I suppose he will want this," he said throwing the fake ID at John, he opened it curiously and frowned. 

"It's not here Sherlock," he said showing him the blank paper. "Did you take them out?"

Sherlock sighed, exasperated, as more papers begin flying around the room, his arms moving in a blur. "It's blank right now. It appears however the person holding it wishes it to."

"It's magic paper?"

"Psychic paper." He shouted.

John folded the 'psychic paper' and slipped it into his pocket. "And the two men you stole it from?"

"They certainly weren't smart enough to have met the Doctor and seem very random in the events that are transpiring, but I will find the connection soon. They could very well be the key to finding the companion and therefore him, if I never find IT. Damn this little piece of paper!" He said tearing up a letter and stuffing it into the bin. "Why must we keep everything John? Are you a hoarder? It's not an attractive quality Mr Watson." 

Ignoring him, John asks, "Okay and this doctor that you've been muttering about?" 

"Hes not A Doctor he's THE Doctor." Sherlock shouts, his frustration coming out at John.

"That doesn't help." John replys calmly, "Who is he?"

"Time Lord of the planet Galifrey. Obsession with earth and its inhabitants, weirdly drawn to London. Probably due to a relationship or traumatic experience, he feels drawn here.." Sherlock pondered to himself, still scanning shreds of paper and discarding them.

".. The planet Galifrey?" John exhaled, incredulous. "Have you been using again?"

Sherlock's head popped up again, pausing in his search, piercing blue eyes stareing at John, "Do you really think I suffered delusions of alien planets when I was using?"

John dropped his head, feeling guilty that he suggested such a thing. "No, sorry, its just- you know how crazy it sounds right?"

"Insane, I'm aware." He muttered, returning to his search. "I was a treasured instrument at the use of UNIT in my early adulthood, due to the insistence of my brother," he explained quickly, seeming uninterested in his own story. "The Doctor is well known at the task force, almost like a sacred leader, and when he arrived everyone greeted him with cheers and salutes. We became good friends quickly, his mind worked much faster than most others and it was.. Less irritating, than the slow burn of regular minds." Sherlocks eyes darted to John and back to the task at hand. "We bonded. We saved a few lives, blah, blah.. He suggested I travel with him, but I rejected his proposal, knowing there were unsolved cases here in London that needed attending to. But he gave me a number to call. It came to be that I left UNIT, I aways felt their targets were not to my liking and my experience with the Doctor revealled their questionable morals."

"You never had a problem with questionable morals before." John pointed out.

"Nonetheless, after my time with the Doctor I decided to take my own route and well, not give two shits about Mycrofts opinion- Ah-ha!" Sherlock ginned, over a piece of old, yellowing paper. "Found it."

Sherlock leaped over into his armchair excitedly and thrust the paper at John.

"Well you dont need me anymore, it looks like you picked up a hot alien Doctor." He said laughing as he studied the yellowing paper with numbers scrawled in blue biro and a little circular doodle in the corner. "You've really got to stop trying to make me jealous.." John joked.

"I never said he was hot." Sherlock mumbled, cheeks burning.


	4. Fried Bananas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose is a Supernatural fan??

"Where's my psychic paper?" He said across the Tardis, patting his hands down his suit, "Rose? Rose I can't find my psychic paper."

Rose looked hard at her phone and made a none commital shrug, trying to seem uninterested. "Did y'check your coat?"

"Yes I checked my...Rose." He said, the reality dawning on him. "Where is it?" 

Rose wandered around to the other side of the console, biting her lip, still staring at her phone. "I dunno."

"Rose." He said sternly, his jaw tense. 

Rose sighed and put down her phone, looking down at the console, she knew she'd have to face the music eventually. "I have these friends in America- well they're not my friends, more like fictional characters that turned out to be real but-"

"You just handed it out? My psychic paper?" The Doctor asks loudly stepping up close to Rose, "When? Why? And when we're you planning on getting it back?" He said, waving his arms around in wild gestures.

Sitting down on the jumpseat like a child that'd been naughty, Rose huffed another sigh and explained. "When you were sick with that fever from the fried banana in that junk food city and stayed in bed for weeks-"

"Yes I remember it was awful but I'd do it all again it was delicious. But I don't see why you gave away my psychic paper."

"If you stop interrupting, I'll tell you." She said patiently. He relaxed, leaning back against the console but keeping his eyes on her. "Right. So while I was being your nurse," she said pointedly, "I read some of my books from home and I was reading one of my favourites from the Supernatural collection and I was wondering if there was any truth in them. I mean we met ghosts with Dickens-"

"-gas based lifeforms-"

"And a werewolf-" she continued, ignoring him.

"-it wasn't an actual humanwolf hybrid-"

"And the Beast?" The Doctor was quiet. "So I googled them and found a site with omens and things, I thought it might be fun to investigate while you were asleep so I was looking for some in London and apparently the fan base were freaking out because something big was happening there. But this one girl, beckysuperfan01 posted a comment about meeting the main characters in the book. Obviously I would never usually think anything of it but, well, I was sat in a time and space travelling machine, if they existed, I could find them."

"The Tardis is not for you to play with! She's a highly delicate very important piece of machinery. And you-" he said turning to face the console, "disappointed in you too. Letting Rose wander around 'investigating' by herself. You're supposed to look after her." He said quietly.

"Did I say sorry yet? Sorry. She did a good job of looking after me anyway- I'm alright," Rose said, jumping up off the seat to look at the Doctors face. He smiled at her. "The Tardis did most of the work, when I asked her," she said, tracing her fingers lovingly over a couple switches and buttons, "I just went out and found them, pretty much as they're described in the books. Gave them the paper, explained the omens in London and left fast to check you were still okay."

The Doctor sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. "Next time, tell me when you start your own little adventures."

"Does this mean we're going to help?" Rose asked excitedly, grabbing the Doctors hand.

"How else do I get my psychic paper back." The Doctor muttered and quickly amended when he saw Roses face, "And rescue London." He grinned, running around to flick some switches and pull levers. "So these books, could I borrow them? It could be useful to-"

"Doctor."

Both Rose and the Doctor jumped, spinning suddenly to see the dishevelled man behind them. A tan trenchcoat hung loosly from his body over a suit, a bright blue tie askew around his neck. His hair was dark and scruffy and his piercing blue eyes travelled around the room. The Doctors eyebrows raised and Roses jaw dropped. 

"Castiel?"

He ignored Rose. "I am very sorry to disturb you Doctor. I am Castiel, angel of the Lord. Dean and Sam Winchester require your assistance. If you would be so kind as to go to them and-" 

"Look at what you started Rose. Random people interrupting my sentences and appearing in my Tardis." The Doctor sighed as Rose stood gobsmacked. He pulled his glasses out and placed them on his nose, "Right." He said, running a hand through his hair. "Co-ordinates. Books. And an explanation, please."


	5. 221B

"Dean! Stop, jeez! There's a knocker, don't just bang on the door." Sam cajoled. 

Dean stopped his attack of the door and picked up the knocker with delicate fingers, tapping it quietly, smiling sarcastically at Sam "Better?" Sam rolled his eyes. "I still dont know why we're here and not following the alien lead. I mean we can go see this guy anytime and Cas said-"

"Dean these guys can help us find out more info on the... 'Alien' thing." Sam interrupted, unsure and exasperated with his brother. "That Sherlock guy seemed to know who he was." 

After a moment Dean turned to face Sam "You still don't believe its aliens do you?" Sam shrugged, "Cas told us its from another planet Sam. Extraterrestrial. What happened to you? You used to believe in everything."

"And you were the world's biggest sceptic. People change. You didn't believe in angels until they were smiting all holy heaven in the back seat Dean." Dean didnt argue -for once- he just did a small one sided smile and nodded. "I think these guys might be able to help us with the omens too." Sam continued, "You know, the reason we came to London?"

Ignoring Sam's whining, Dean knocked again. "No answer," he said after a second, "this is the address, right?"

Sighing, Sam pulled a square of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it to reveal a print out of the site, "Yep, 221B Bakers Street. We could try going round the- wait. Someones there." He said, as the quiet jiggle of keys could be heard on the other side. 

The small old lady that opened the door seemed nice enough in her floral dress and cardigan and as she saw them she smiled, eyes raking up and down them a little too slowly. "Hello?"

Dean coughed awkwardly and covered his junk. Sam stuttered, "Hi, uh, we're here looking for Mr Holmes and Mr Watson."

Without taking her eyes off Sam's chest she shouted, "Boys! You've got another one. Americans." Before smiling again, warm and a little too flirtatious for Sam's liking.

He tried to ignore the little 'umph' noise she made as she left and the smaller of the two British men, the blonde one, who they now understood to be John Watson, sauntered down the narrow stairs. 

"Oh, okay." He mumbled as he reached the bottom of the stairs, not at all surprised and a little tired. Turning, he shouted back up the staircase, "Sherlock! Its the fake federal officers from Lestrades!" Sam cringed a little.

A loud thump sounded as something hit the floor above them. Dean let go of his junk and raised an eyebrow at Sam. Just as he was going to ask Mr Watson if everything was okay- the dark haired man appeared at the top of the stairs. "Invite them up John." He said, before disappearing again. 

"Well," John smiled warmly, "I guess you'd better go up."

 

Upstairs was a mess. The old lady was clearly not a housekeeper. 

Old takeout boxes were piled up next to dirty tea trays, which were balanced on odd looking scientific beakers and things- and that was just the coffee table. The room was dark, but clearly well loved and but there was a peculiar smell lingering in the air.. Something rotting? Also, there was paper everywhere. On every surface; bills, letters, books, newspaper articles old and new. In a strange way it relaxed Sam, reminding him of Bobbys' with the old books and writings. 

"John find these men a couple of chairs," The dark haired man, Mr Holmes, muttered. He took a seat in a comfortable looking armchair which sat opposite an upturned chair on the other side, framing the fireplace.

John sighed and whispered to the brothers, "Sorry about the mess. He's been.. Difficult at the minute." 

"Why is it nessecary to appologise? Surely the world understands that a brilliant mind such as mine has little time for tidying when there are much more pressing matters which require my attention." He called to John from the chair where he sat poker straight and legs crossed, intently watching the Winchesters. As Deans eyed raked around the room and Sam tried to avoid standing on the paper.

"Human decency, Sherlock. People try to be decent." John replied and Sherlock huffed a breath.

”Dude," Dean whispered, nudging Sam in the ribs, oblivious to the scrutiny they were recieving, "check the skull." 

As they sat in the chairs John had placed in the middle of the room (uncaring for the papers under the legs apparently) he glanced up at the mantel piece where, yes, there was a human skull. 

"Sherlock get out of my seat or so help me God." Sam's attention was snapped back to where John was stood with his hands on his hips in front of Sherlock, who had now adopted a cheeky grin. "Sherlock." John whined.

"Oh stop whining John." He muttered and reluctantly, he retreated to the other side of the room and picked up, what the Winchesters assumed was his own chair, off the floor and the two men sat down. Sam wondered if they were related somehow.

"What can we help you with boys?" John asked kindly, leaning forwards.

Sam cleared his throat, "We came to ask-"

"About the Doctor obviously." Sherlock muttered, uninterested.

"Let them speak." John said tersely, his patience wearing thin, not taking his eyes off the American men.

"No." Sam said pointedly at Sherlock, "We came to discuss with you the omens occurring in London." 

Sherlocks eyes narrowed, intrigued, and Johns eyebrows raised. "Continue."


	6. Rematch

Moriarty brushed the sleeve of his tattered suit with a grimace. It truly was disgusting interacting with the criminal filth of the world, but the supernatural filth? It was enough to make a grown man gag.

“Animals.” He muttered, glancing at the demons that lined the walls, all ages, sizes and shapes. A large white woman, a bulky Chinese guy, a bald black man in a suit. Moriarty paused when he saw a small blonde girl, around seven, stood with her hands clasped against her blue school uniform. He placed his hands on his knees and bent a little, smiling wide and waving, his fingers almost tickling the air in front of his palm. The small girls eyebrows rose and her eyes flashed black. His grin grew wider.

“James. Don’t patronize them.” A grating Scottish accent called from the dark on the other side of the room.

“But she’s so cute.” He mumbled, patting her on the top of the head gently, her petite face darkening, “Are all your demons this adorable?” 

Stepping across the shadows and into the flickering lights, Crowley smiled. “Trust me, she drags more men to hell than you do.” He grumbled in the way that Moriarty had come to expect from the king of hell.

It was a title, of course, it didn’t mean anything. Crowley was just another piece of shit demon with an ego to rival a Kardashian. Even when Moriarty first met him, on that cold dark corner, he knew the ‘King of Hell' was just a name.

In a way, Moriarty was king of his own hell. It was a hell on earth.

“Actually,” the king of hell continued, “after you kick your ass in gear and move along with that plan of yours, you might live up to your name and prove to these dicks,” he spat at the small child, looking along the demons who, frankly, looked like they didn’t give a crap. “that I make brilliant choices.”

Moriarty stood straight with an exasperated sigh. Crowley was such a fucking politician; anything for his reputation. He had no ambition or goal to accomplish and it irritated Moriarty to no end. Where the hell was the drive? Moriarty had always aimed high. To become a high class criminal, to control other criminals, to create his own immense hierarchy or criminals and he became, for the lack of words, ‘king’ of said criminals. Then he found himself a new game. Take down his only equal.

“Its not a plan.” He said tersely. Plans are too doomed to fail. Moriarty played, enjoyed the to and fro, fighting tooth and nail to win. Hell, he had. He’d killed himself for the sake of winning. “It’s a game. A rematch.” Cheating angelic shit survived.

Crowley looked like he wanted to burst out laughing, but he bit it back, grinning like a fool. “Alright. Whatever you say, Magneto. Just bring me him.” 

Moriarty frowned at Crowley, curious. “Why are you so intent on having the man?” 

The energy in the room changed dramatically as Crowley growled. “I’m not int-“ he stopped, glaring at Moriarty, breathing hard before controlling his temper and closing his eyes, fingers working his temples. “I’m just, I would like to meet the guy.”

Smiling, Moriarty raised his hands in a surrender, “Hey, its good. I was only asking.” Crowley relaxes visibly and Moriarty shoves a hand into his pocket, pulling out a few pieces of gum. “Mint?” he offered.

“Why would a demon need a mint?” Crowley scoffed, shaking his head.

Moriarty popped the gum in his mouth and chewed for a few seconds, before walking down the room and replying over his shoulder, “Why would a demon need a scotch.”

“Touché.”


	7. Put the Kettle On

Sherlock stared down at the teabag swirling in the water, wondering how long it would take before John snapped.

Their whole conversation with the Winchesters had revolved around a topic which Sherlock had yet to expose John to; the supernatural. So far he hadn’t said much, though he’d been grinding his teeth for ten minutes and his facial expressions seemed uncontrollable. Disbelief, confusion, irritation, exasperation. Currently, he was staring at the side of Sherlock’s head as they stood in the kitchen, clearly trying to find a crack in his mask.

“Why are they still here? Sat in our living room?" John burst, trying to keep his voice at a minimum, “I mean seriously. Why haven’t you kicked them out? Are you studying their mental state or something?”

Smiling, Sherlock glanced at the clock on the microwave. Fourteen minutes. He’d lasted longer than Sherlock expected.

“Would you stop grinning for one bloody second and answer me, Sherlock?” It must be rather stressful to discover that both aliens and the supernatural exist in one day. Sherlock would make this quick.

“I’ve worked on cases with Djinn, ghosts and demons before. UNIT were aware of their activity. The men in the living room are telling the truth.” Sherlock sighed, tapping his teaspoon on the side of the mug and moving it onto a tray, where other mugs sat patiently.

Unlike John. "There is no fucking way they’re telling the truth. They- they're insane! If this is some elaborate joke, its not funny.”

“Pass me the custard creams.” Sherlock asked, Johns eyes never leaving his face.

He tipped the biscuits onto a small plate (must thank Hudson) and John visibly deflated. “Oh fuck you’re serious. Ghosts. Werewolves. Demons. Genies..”

“Actually John they’re called Djinn and they differ greatly from the..” Sherlock’s voice drifted away as he saw Johns narrowed eyes and thunderous eyebrows. “..But that hardly matters. Yes. Vampires, Angels, Gods, they exist in our world. They're just very well hidden.”

Johns anger dropped from his face and he placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, stopping him from turning away. “Wait, backtrack. What was that? Angels?”

“Boys!” Mrs Hudson’s voice interrupted with a familiar ring from the staircase.

“Yes. Angels.” He answered matter-of-factly, picking up the tea tray and shrugged Johns hand from his shoulder, “It seems we have more visitors. We will be requiring more tea. Be a dear and put the kettle on again John.”

 

When John entered the living room he was surprised to find the number of occupants in their little flat had doubled. Between the Winchester brothers a man had appeared, engulfed in a camel trench coat. By the door stood Mrs Hudson in a lovely summer frock looking rather confused and behind her were two more strangers. One slim man in a suit and one blonde girl no older than nineteen.

Mrs Hudson sighed, drawing Johns attention from the unknown bodies. “I don’t know why I even bother. First these two-“ she complained, motioning to the brothers, “Then these,” a thumb at the new visitors, “And this man just appears out of nowhere! I should just hang a sign on the door ‘Strange guests welcome'. I mean really boys. Give me a heads up when you’re having a get together. I really don’t mind, just clean up the mess and keep the noise down in the early hours. Remember I’m an old lady, I don’t need to hear that kind of thing.” She finished her lecture suggestively and left, pushing past the newcomers.

Making eye contact with Dean, both John and the American made awkward and slightly disgusted faces. Note to self, John thought, source Mrs Hudson some stronger herbal soothers.

Sherlock hadn’t moved since they entered the living room, frozen to the spot, and John was becoming worried until-

“Doctor?”

The slim man in the doorway grinned, a pearly white smile. “Sherlock,” he replied, striding over to pull Sherlock into a tight hug, his chin tucked over the detectives shoulder. “Its been too long! Look at you, all.. Middle aged.” He said pulling away.

“You can hardly talk. New face I see. Pretty.” Sherlock answered immediately. Was he flirting?

“Hey, watch it- you heard the landlady.” The Doctor teased, pointing a finger at him accusingly. 'Sherlock Holmes was flirting. With an alien.' John thought, the pieces fitting together. 'Could this day get more insane?'

The blonde by the door coughed. “Doctor? Not to interrupt your bonding session or anythin' but they’re the guys.” She said, eyeing the brothers as they sat and watched the whole exchange with interest.

Dean frowned, leaning forward on alert. Probably ready to defend himself from a vampire or something equally ridiculous. “Us?”

“Wait- Dean, it’s that girl.” Sam said, clearly recognizing the peroxide teen in blue jeans.

Dean glanced up at the trenchcoated man behind him. “Cas does that mean-“ his head whipped around to face the Doctor, eyes wide with disbelief. “He’s the guy- He’s an alien.”

In the ensuing silence John almost felt bad for Dean. He clearly had expected some kind of response; a gasp, someone to disagree, anything. The blonde nodded with a small smile, Sherlock smirked, Sam’s eyes widened and the Doctor shrugged. John, he just sighed.

“You gotta be kidding me. You all knew?” Dean continued, standing up and sitting back down again while rubbing his face. “God England sucks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a crazy long time to make. I was enjoying it and then I lost my work so it was a pain to recreate. But if people still like it I'm happy to keep going :)  
> Please forgive my many mistakes x


	8. Castiel

The room was buzzing with life, beautiful people talking animatedly to each other about omens and evidence. Castiel decided it was rather strange to see such a group of classically aesthetically pleasing humans gathered together like this. All strong and adventurous specimens of humanity. He doubted there were few villains that this team could not conquer. Sam and Dean had fit in well with this crowd as they usually did in any, but Castiel found himself away from the action, watching over from the fireplace. 

On the sofa at the end of the room, Sam was absorbed in a conversation with Sherlock and the Doctor who sat precariously on the back of the sofa. His gaze flickered between the two men as they spoke quickly, bouncing ideas off each other and nodding every so often. Sam hardly contributed but he looked happy enough just to listen as the great minds thought aloud.

Dean also seemed happy, for less intilectual reasons. He stood by the window as the blonde -Rose? Yes, Rose- blushed a deep shade of red at whatever ridiculous line Dean had used this time. As Castiel watched, Dean looked over and grinned, clearly pleased with his triumph. 

Castiel rolled his eyes as the righteous man shamelessly flirted with the young girl. Tuning into their conversation purely out of curiosity, Castiel tilted his head and narrowed his eyes.

“..So how much action do you get up out there in space? I mean some of them Star Trek chicks.” He whistled crudely.

Rose barely raised an eyebrow. “There’s never really time for any “action” when you travel with the Doctor. Too much real action going on.”

“I feel you.” Dean nodded, “You wish there was though, right?” He teased, “Someone wants to try a little Doctor roleplay?” he winked. 

A deep blush settled on the blonde’s face again. “You’re one to talk. I’ve read Carver Edlunds work. You can’t spell subtext without s-e-x.”

Dean glanced over at Castiel, who quickly tried to appear like he hadn’t been eavesdropping. Castiel knew Dean was fond of privacy. “That’s not- shut up.” Dean muttered, staring down at his shoes as a dusty pink reached the tips of his ears. “Me and Cas, we never.. I mean I know what the fans of the books think but we don't really talk about-“

“Tea?” Snapped back to his closer surroundings, Castiel blinked at the small man in front of him. He held out a small mug of tea and smiled cautiously, blue eyes twinkling. After a beat his smile dropped, “Sorry, I uh, thought you might like some. Sounds a bit silly now though. You probably only drink holy water or something.” He babbled to himself, looking mildly flustered and embarrassed.

Castiel took the offering and held the handle carefully. “Thank you. We don’t need to eat or drink, but on occasion I have found myself yearning to indulge in a White Castle.” Castiel joked, trying to ease the mans nerves. It was kind to offer him a drink, even if he was more accustomed to coffee due to Sam and Deans habits, he would most certainly try the tea.

“You’re welcome.” The human replied with a laugh, “Though I’m afraid you’re more likely to find a McDonald’s around here. John,” he introduced himself, holding one hand out to shake, which Castiel did. “Yourself?”

“Castiel.” He replied, letting go of John’s hand.

“That’s.. Unique.” John mumbled to himself. Castiel wasn’t offended, he had actually come to prefer the nickname given to him by the eldest Winchester, anyway. His full name didn’t seem to suit him anymore. “Does it.. Does it have a special meaning?” John asked.

“More recently its become associated with the day Thursday, but the official meaning is 'Shield of God'. I played a role in heavens army.” Castiel explained, peering into the mug with caution.

“Soldier.” John nodded seeming much more relaxed, odd considering the topic of conversation. “I understand.” Castiel, being not-at-all human and new to the whole emotion thing, ignored the odd waves off feeling coming from the small British man. He was hardly about to discuss it, so he remained quiet and sipped his tea. Not enough sugar, too much milk.

John had clearly been thinking of other things, watching over the room as Castiel had. It was seventeen minutes later when he quietly said, “You knew Sherlock, but he didn’t know you.” He said watching the dark haired detective as he guffawed at something Sam said. “I mean, you knew his name. How is that?”

“Your partner has worked with angels before. His intellect is treasured in many circles and though I was never granted the delight to work with him, I heard many stories.” When Castiel glanced at John, he was smiling, almost laughing. “Did I say something humorous?” the angel asked, puzzled.

Shaking his head John huffed a small laugh, “No, I just- I always thought he was being metaphorical."


	9. The Case of the Confusing Cactus

"Scooby Doo and the Mystery gang are here." Donovan's voice crackled out of the radio on Greg Lestrades hip as he pulled on his blue overalls.

He had a distinct feeling Donovan was talking about her least favourite consulting detective. Holding the radio to his face and snapping on a pair of gloves, he replied, "What are you on about now?"

"He's here." Donovan replied instantly, "He's here and he's brought a travelling freak show."

Lestrade ran a hand down his face before answering, "Send him up."

_________________

 

"This is ridiculous." Lestrade muttered, rubbing his temple. "I'm not even supposed to let you in here and now he starts bringing in strays?"

John smiled apologetically and shrugged as Sherlock barged past them and into the flat, leading a long parade of peculiar people. Lestrade recognised the two tall American men as the overly muscular idiots from his office a few days ago, the Winchesters. He had half a mind to cuff them for impersonating officers but it just wasn't worth the hassle.

Still, Lestrades hand hovered over the handgun on his hip when the shorter of the Winchester pair flashed him a wink.

Last to enter the high security area were a young girl and a tall thin man in a pinstriped suit. The couple looked excited, almost giddy, with matching grins on their faces as they entered the murder scene. Lestrade didn't even ask.

"Just don't touch anything." He grumbled, admitting defeat as he walked into the room himself and shut the door, dreading the day he'd have to explain this to someone.

It was an empty apartment, the owner was remodelling. In fact he'd only noticed the body when he arrived earlier to paint the skirting boards. She looked young, mid twenties at most, wearing tight black jeans and a clean white shirt. Her dark hair was splayed out across the hardwood floor, half covering her pretty face. "Caucasian female, early-mid twenties, no ID, broken neck. From what we can tell she was dragged here- "

"Nope." Sherlock interrupted rudely.

Lestrade attempted to keep the pink from spreading across his cheeks. Sherlock was embarrassing him in front of a room full of strangers _again_. "Fine then." He said tersely, "You do it."

Sherlocks answering smile had Lestrade twitching for his handgun for the second time in minutes. "She came here on her own of her own volition." He corrected, wandering around the body with a sharp eye. "No mobile phone. If it were taken or misplaced she would have slight calluses on her thumbs as most young people these days from incessant tapping. She simply doesn't own a phone, suggesting she's a solitary person. But her clothing and make up suggests she interacts with people on a daily basis, so, not a hermit. No technology but the watch on her left wrist. No scars, cuts or bruises besides the obvious on her jaw and neck. Recently migrated here.. But I can't work out where from." He mumbled with a frown.

A small part of Lestrade cheered, _he doesn't know everything!_ But was interrupted by the pin stripes.

"Try the watch." The skinny man suggested with a small smile, watching as Sherlock bent to inspect the small metal band around her wrist. It just looked like a watch to Lestrade, but his curiosity peaked as Sherlock mumbled a small, "Oh." Before standing suddenly and shooing Lestrade out of the door. "Out. I need you out. I need some privacy."

Struggling to hold his ground, Greg Lestrade stepped back out into the hall. "Privacy! There's a whole room of unauthorized people in there! You can't withhold evidence! I've got you for that before. I can't just let you -" A loud slam cut Lestrades complaint off sharply. "Dammit!" He spat, slapping the door frame.

It only took a few seconds for Lestrades pride to slip away, pressing his ear to the lock and listening carefully to the shocked gasps of half the group inside, reacting to something unseen by Greg.

"Its a cactus!" An American yelped.

"Hey, be careful what you say, that's offensive."  Another male voice said. The one in the suit with the hair, Lestrade realised. 

"But its green. And spikey." The American voice mumbled.

"What is it Doctor?" Female voice, must have been the blonde.

"Vincocci, she was using a shimmer, that's what that wristwatch thingy is. It made her appear human." The Doctor explained.

 _Appear human?_ God Sherlock was affiliated with some freaks. Still he was the best chance the Yard had ninety percent of the time, so Lestrade had to put up with the weird for the brilliant.

With that in mind, he moved away from the door and leant against the frame. Cactuses and shimmers. None of it made any sense. Maybe he'd heard wrong, maybe he was just finally going insane, either way he was fed up. With a deep sigh, he raised his fist and bashed on the door repeatedly. "Times up Sherlock. Let me in."

"Just, sorry, one second Greg!" John called through the door.

"No, not one second. Now!" Lestrade shouted as the door swung open slowly.

The Winchesters and John looked pale, but other than that the scene was as he left it. Brunette girl dead on the floor surrounded by the odd group. They were all looking steadily at the body, thinking hard.

"Sherlock, you said she came here on her own?" John asked, breaking the silence. "But she ended up with a broken neck. Someone else must have been here."

"You're assuming someone did this to her." Sherlock replied. "I'm telling you she did this to herself."

Four faces turned to Sherlock with utter disbelief. Lestrade was so baffled by Sherlocks statement that he nearly missed the glance exchanged between the Winchester brothers. "So.. What, this is a suicide? How does a woman possibly break her own neck?" He asked, focussing back on Sherlock.

"Possession." The taller, floppy haired Winchester, Sam, stage whispered.

 _Possession_? That was the final straw. "Out." He shouted, holding the door open. "I want you out of my crime scene, now. All of you. That means you too, Sherlock."

 


	10. Sam-I-Am

Sam was clever, he knew he was. He'd always been the smart one, learning came naturally to him and he liked it. It was difficult when he was younger, but hey, everything was difficult before he left for Stanford. Travelling with Dean now, being intellectual was good. It meant they solved cases faster and avoided stupid mistakes. It felt good when people recognised it, respected.

Which was probably why he felt so small beside the Doctor and Sherlock. Being good at learning was one thing, but advanced alien species and sociopathic geniuses? He was miles out of his depth. So he sat quietly and listened, trying to learn what he could.

Which, surprisingly, wasn't very much.

"But why?" Sherlock mumbled, his face twisted into a tense frown as he tossed a small metal object into he air and caught it repeatedly. "Why, why, _why_?"

The small, dark haired detective was staring at the wall above the couch, a collage of information and pictures pinned together with string. It was sight Sam was used to seeing. It always helped to visualise the problems on hunts.

The Doctor was uncharacteristically quiet, muttering only a small "Empath fields." To Rose, the young blonde girl, who nodded appropriately. They looked comfortable together, even in this weird situation.

Not many people could seem so carefree after witnessing the aftermath of a possession. Which what this was, essentially. Maybe this was just like an ordinary hunt.

Sam kept his mouth shut as he thought through the facts. They were in England, the victim was alien, but it was pretty familiar. Demonic omens, weird suicide and sulfur. A possession. He touched the tattoo on his chest absentmindedly, wondering if he should voice his opinion.

That's when the doctor finally decided to speak up, stepping up onto the couch so he was centimetres from the wall. "Shimmer." He mumbled, holding his hand out.

Sherlock threw the small gray object and the Doctor caught it without looking. The movement distracted Sam from his thoughts, eyeing the object and only just realising what it was.

"You stole that from the crime scene?" He asked with a frown.

"Hardly the fist time I've pick pocketed a corpse." The detective mumbled as he pushed the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows and ran his hands through his hair.

Sam wasn't exactly bothered by theft (with their track record it'd be pretty hypocritical) but he kind of expected a guy who worked with the police to actually.. Work with the police. "Isn't that obstructing justice? Isn't it against the law?"

Sherlock seemed irritated, his twisted face quickly smoothing into a heavy sarcastic smile. "Isn't grave digging and arson breaking the law too? I mean, you'd know wouldn't you? Or maybe not. How many semesters did you actually complete?" Sam paled. He didn't realise Sherlock knew who they were, besides what they had told him. Sam mentally facepalmed. _You idiot, he's a detective._

He was still grinning, his voice dripping with condescension. "Seems you're pretty popular back home, Sammy. All those deaths, all that murder."

"Sherlock." Doctor warned.

"Whats your dead to rescued ratio, hm?" He continued, ignoring the Doctor. "At least I don't pretend to be a hero. How many lives have you ruined in the name of free will? Not the monsters - you. With your theft and impersonations and fraud and hopeless aspirations for freedom?" Sherlock hadn't moved, but Sam felt like he was in his face throwing every doubt he'd ever had back at him. Turning his face back towards the wall, Sherlock muttered, "Demon blood drinking slu -"

"Enough." The Doctor interrupted firmly. "Stop taking your frustration out on him." The smirk remained on Sherlocks face.

It was a very good thing Dean had left to get food. Sam knew he was bright red and his jaw was tense but he was controlling his anger. If Dean had been there Sherlock would've met the older Winchesters fists abruptly.

"We've got some brilliant minds and fabulous hair between the three of us, we should be discussing conditioner not winding each other up." The Doctor continued, turning on the couch to face the group. Rose muffled a laugh behind her hand. "Samuel, Sammy, Sam-I-Am! Regardless of location and victim, on case like this what would be your next move?"

Sam shrugged and pushed his hair back from his face.

"Come on! You're the expert."

Sherlock huffed a laugh.

"I guess we'd figure out who the demon is, or is working for, usually. Or just trap and exorcize them" Sam spoke directly to the Doctor. Something inside him was still feeling raw and exposed from Sherlocks verbal attack. God, how did Watson live with this man? Dean could be hard work but never.. Abusive.

After a moment of hesitation, he continued. "To be honest, they don't usually damage the body they're in unless they gain something from it. Knowledge, entertainment, power, something like that." Sam explained.

The Doctor nodded and Sherlock retreated to his chair with a huff, muttering something about Tresemé and a weekly mask. "Possessing aliens could provide all those things, and more." The Doctor added, almost to himself.

"Aliens, plural? You think it could be more than just the Vinvochi thing?" Sam asked, confused.

Though the question was for the Doctor, Sherlock spoke up from the other side of the room. "Cold cases. Suicides that never felt quite right. I have a few collected in my bedside table. I'll call Mycroft and see what UNIT has in its archi -"

"You keep cold cases in your bedroom?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Sam was fairly pleased.

"Call UNIT. Don't tell them know I'm here though, they always make such a fuss over me. Keep it need to know. Right now we need to work out who's possessing these people and why. How do we find.. it/them?" The Doctor said, turning to the tallest, youngest Winchester. Who shrugged.

He was about to mention some tracking spells they could try but Rose, who had up until now been frowning at the evidence on the wall, moved forward and caught the attention of the room. "Crowley." She burst with a proud smile, "You'd call Crowley."

 


	11. Dreadfully Domestic Conversation

" _Brother, so kind of you to call."_

"Oh shut up, this isn't a brotherly catch up."

_"It never is, is it?"_

"If it were, I believe you should take appropriate precautions, because I would probably be about to murder you."

" _So violent. I'm not sure where you get it from."_

"Bahrain snipers? I know exactly where I get it from."

" _Dad always did make us watch too much Channel four."_

"I need information."

_"As per. I suggest you use your usual channels and discover the information you require of your own hand, rather than have your big brother do the heavy lifting for you. Or is this it? Are you finally admitting you're not up to scratch?"_

"Mycroft would you shut your chasm of a mouth for one -"

_"It was lovely speaking to you Sherlock."_

"Wait. I need documents from UNIT."

...

"Your breathing is rattly. I suggest you book an appointment -"

" _Its a chest infection, mild, I assure you. I have a question for you."_

"Mother loved me more. Always did. She admitted it to me during a game of checkers at Easter. Or was that not the question?"

" _Who are the people passing in and out of Baker Street, Sherlock?"_

"Cases."

" _Right. Sherlock I really don't care what you do with your time -"_

"Then stop monitoring my home."

_"- but honestly I should think one goldfish is enough. Or did John get lonely?"_

"Rich, coming from you."

" _So what, you're suddenly Mr Sociable? I should hardly think so."_

"How would you know? Do you have cameras tracking my mentality as well as my whereabouts?" "I need cold cases. Suicides that aren't. They're relevant to a case I'm working on."

" _And what case would that be?"_

"A suicide that isn't. Do keep up."

" _Why would UNIT have anything to do with fake suicides? Did you find an ETA?"_

"I found slightly more than an artifact. Vincocci, green and prickly, vaguely human form. But it's my case, hardly your business."

" _Now, now, dear brother. Is that any way to butter up to your one and only access to the file you require?"_

"... The body should be in St. Bart's by now. It's in stasis, should remain to appear human. UNIT can have it, I'm done with it. Mycroft, could you allow me online access to both UNIT and Torchwood systems?"

...

"Please."

" _Of course. I'll disable the network for a period of time, text you the details."_

_..._

_"You're welcome."_

 

 

_______________________________

 

The raspy sound of Mycroft's voice cut off as Sherlock hung up, a long beep signalling the end of the call.

It was possibly Moriarty's favourite things about being dead. He could be anything, anyone he wanted to be with just a leap in and out of these stupid minds. Anyone such as Paul.

Paul was a lovely guy, married with three kids and a dog. Travelled into London for hours everyday for his valuable job in the secret service. Hardly 007, but Paul managed those phones like a pro - heck, he was a professional. Monitoring calls, scanning for indicators or key words. Due for a promotion pretty soon too. Listening to endless conversations between the members of the British Government.

Listening to Mycroft's dreadfully domestic conversations with his little brother. His living, breathing, dick of a brother.

And that's why our lovely friend Paul walked to the tube station with a skip in his step. Because Sherlock had found it. The lovely young woman that snapped her own neck. Sherlock was finally on to something, looking back into old cases and discovering all the wonderful presents Moriarty had left for him.

In fact, Paul was so ecstatic that when he saw the minute countdown on the noticeboard for the next train, he ever-so-carefully fell backwards off the platform and onto the track. He lay there chortling for a few moments, grinning as he watched the panic on the platform rise and rise until people were screaming and then-

Moriarty opened Mary Anne's eyes just in time to see the panicked look cross Paul's face before the train drove through him.

Mary Anne was on her way into town to meet a friend. She grinned brightly and walked across the platform, away from the scene as people screamed and ran in circles around her.

She laughed quietly. Never a boring moment when you're dead. Moriarty loved being dead.

 


	12. Who The Hell Is Crowley

Alarmingly attractive, that's what they were. All three of them. Sherlock with his cheekbones and pout, Sam with his shoulders and jaw and well, the Doctor being himself as usual.

Even as they stood and stared at her, slack jawed, as if she'd suggested they all jump in the 'pala and drive her into the Thames. Beautiful, brilliant men and not a bloody brain cell between them. "Crowley. King-of-Hell, sarcastic-Scottish guy?" She repeated, watching as the realisation swept across their faces.

"You read the books." Sam said on a long sigh as the other two melted back into their normal (albeit weird) behaviours.

Sherlock returned to his stoic state in the armchair. The Doctor tucked his glasses away into his pocket and turned to Sam. " _We_ read the books. I would say Rose is a more devoted fan than me but then I prefer classic novels, Tolkien, Dickens, JK. Not.. Supernatural erotica."

Rose didn't miss the way Sherlocks eyes darted over towards the Doctor with curiosity. "It's not - if anything I'd say it was horror not.. Erotica." Sam defended himself, cheeks tinged slightly pink.

_Really Sam? That chapter with Ruby.._

"Actually I don't know what my brother gets up to, don't want to either." He corrected with a small, grossed-out face. "So I don't know. But it's supposed to be a gospel anyway, why would there be sex scenes?"

Rose chalked it up to the fact that Carver Edlund was probably a creep. "Makes it interesting." She shrugged. "But seriously, we should - or you, whatever - should summon Crowley."

"You're right." Sam nodded with a frown. The blonde companion was actually a little surprised that he agreed so easily. "But we're waiting for Dean."

"Why?" The Doctor complained, flopping down on the settee with a raised eyebrow. Nine hundred year old ancient alien species Rose's-ass, he was just a kid hyped up on mystery.

"Because I'm not getting into this without him knowing what's going on and we could use another hunter on hand, in case things get out of control. Also," Sam paused, "all the stuff we need is in the car."

 

It was like a practiced move, Dean entering 221B and Sam leaving.

"Grubs up." The older Winchester yelled, throwing a paper bag at Doctor on the settee as Sam strode across the room, pulled the keys from Deans hand and walked down the stairs two at a time. "Hey, what the -?"

"Calling Crowley." Sam explained.

"Oh fun. I needed my daily dose of crap today."

Rose laughed from her spot next to the Doctor. This was just like reading an unpublished chapter and it was everything she expected it to be.

The front door slammed and Dean sighed as he made his way further into the room. He didn't slow as he dragged the coffee table out into the centre of the room (awkwardly pushing all the clutter off while staring at Sherlock), pulled chalk from his pocket and drew a rough circle with a triangle inside. His fast paced sure movements reminded her of the Doctor. The Doctor, who was currently sniffing at the take out Dean had brought back. Besides being peace keeper he wasn't really doing much for this whole fiasco, he'd usually have sent some bad guys home or accidentally blown up a building by his point in the adventure. Though to be fair those chips smelt pretty good. She nicked one and grinned toothily up at him.

He'd been reluctant to stay here at first, but she knew he was enjoying himself. Sherlock and him seemed to have some kind of history so he'd been happy to stay but his interest really peaked when Sherlock discovered the Vincocci. Apparently they were from a plant called Sto, in the Casivanian Belt (as if Rose would know where that was) and had very advanced medical technology. She'd wondered if that had anything to do with the case and he'd shrugged.

"Where's John?" Sherlock spoke up for the first time in a while, knocking Rose out of her thoughts. He was in his armchair still, his eyes now trained on a laptop screen.

"With Cas, getting milk. He'll pop him back here in a sec." Dean said as he pulled out his lighter. "D'you have any candles?"

"Bathroom." If the room hadn't been so silent (apart from the sound of the Doctor munching down on chips), she probably would have snorted laughing. "What?" He added staring at their reactions.

"Nothing." Dean muttered quickly, his eyebrows discovering a life of their own. "Bathroom, right." Pointing into the hallway, Dean started his search. As he left, Sam appeared. In his hands he carried a bowl full of herbs and bones. Looked like a Heston Blumenthal recipe.

"Good old hoodoo, not exactly twenty first century but still. Very atmospheric." The Doctor whispered in her ear with a mouthful of potato.

"We are not summoning Crowley with strawberry scented candles." Dean said, marching back into the living room. Sherlock shrugged and Rose nearly burst a blood vessel trying to hold back her laughter. "Just torch the damn bowl." Dean grumbled.

Sam nodded, placing the bowl in the centre of the chalk symbol and dropping his own lighter in.

In the flash, Castiel and John appeared, arms ladened with Tesco carrier bags. No-one in the room seemed bothered. Aside from John, who looked like he was ready to keel over and empty his stomach on the carpet. "Bloody hell. That - that was not fun." He mumbled, clutching his stomach and pointing over at Castiel accusingly. With a tired look of confusion he continued, "Was that fire? Have you drawn on our table? Sherlock what the hell is going on?"

"They're summoning a demon." Sherlock answered, still watching the laptop screen. Rose wondered what was so interesting on that screen that it beat the a demon summoning. The literal king of hell would be in his flat and Sherlock was too busy checking his emails.

"Lovely." John sighed. Rose was pretty impressed by his lack of freak-out. Living with Sherlock must throw some weird stuff your way, she thought.

"Come on Crowley." Dean grumbled eyeing the room as if he'd jump down from the mantel piece.

With one raised eyebrow, John dumped the shopping bags on the floor. "Is Crowley the demon? What sort of name is that? Guys. Is he bad? What am I saying of course he's bad, he's a - god are we really doing this?" No answer. No one seemed particularly tense, but at the same time no one wanted to be the one to tell the small jumper wearing doctor there'd be a demon in his living room any second now. John asked again, louder and more irritated. "Who the _hell_ is Crowley?"

And little old Satan himself appeared behind him silently. Rose got the feeling he was waiting for a cue.

Crowley looked wearier than Rose expected. His dark hair lifeless and dead, harsh eyes softened by the bags beneath them and his smile seemingly held on by the Winchesters glares. Or maybe that smirk just didn't rub off. He held an empty tumbler in his hand, as if he'd just poured the last dregs.

"King of Hell." He drawled, chuckling as John jumped. "Oh that was perfect. That was brilliant. Can I go back? Summon me again because that was just.. Yes."

Rose really wasn't sure if that was sarcasm or not.

"Crowley, Fergus McCloud, King of Hell." Dean smiled sardonically, ignoring Crowley and waving his arms in an over exaggerated introduction for Johns benefit.

"The king of hell is Scottish." John frowned for a moment, "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Crowley barked a laugh and patted the small blond on the shoulder. That should be weird, right? Watching the literal King of the Pitt laugh and get pal-y. Rose chalked it up to the fact that she was still fangirl-ing a little too hard to actually realise the danger quite yet. "I like this one." He added as John paled.

"Crowley.. " Dean warned in a voice that made Rose a little tingly. She glanced up at the Doctor and bit down a smile.

He left John alone and wandered over to the Winchesters. "You could've just called me. You have my cell number. Whats the point in paying for a bloody contract if you're gonna summon me like old timey witches? And what's with the entourage lads? I thought you two were the lone-wolf type. Thought it was part of the bad boy image."

Sam cleared his throat, ignoring Crowley's comments. Rose wondered if the Winchesters ignored Crowley a lot. "Someone is possessing and killing ali -"

Sherlock coughed, loud and obviously.

"- people in London. Who is it?"

Oh. So we aren't saying anything about the Vincocci. Rose watched Crowley's eyebrows rise as he saw the obvious cover up in front of him.

"I don't know and I don't care. They're demons, fellas. If I had to keep track of all the possession and murder I'd kill myself."

"Crowley quit being a douche and answer the question. Who is it?" Dean barked. Not that Rose was getting hot under the collar or anything, but she did let out a small breathless squeak. The Doctor glanced down at her with a concerned frown.

"You two are bloody thick." Crowley answered, his face turning pink. "I don't know!" The Winchesters narrowed their eyes but didn't reply.

After a while Crowley looked down at the tumbler in his hand and fiddled with it. "Can I leave now? There's this brunette waiting for me downstairs and she gets bored easy.."

Dean rolled his eyes and Crowley was gone. Rose kind of expected black smoke or something.

"Well that could have gone better." The Doctor said, smirking, "Is it my turn now?"


End file.
